


The Times Jim and Bones Showed Their Affection By Way of Too Much Testosterone

by readbetweenthelions



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readbetweenthelions/pseuds/readbetweenthelions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk and McCoy attempt to show each other affection and care in a manly way - by beating each other up every chance they get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Times Jim and Bones Showed Their Affection By Way of Too Much Testosterone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daiya_Darko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daiya_Darko/gifts).



> created at the same time as [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/866625) as part of a pact

_This is Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim. His commanding officer. His brother-in-arms. His best friend._

Leonard slams a fist into Jim’s upper arm. 

“Ow!” Jim yelps, clapping a hand to it immediately. “What the hell – ” 

“You could have _died,_ you _stupid, unbearably moronic fat-headed fuck,_ ” Leonard swears, jabbing Jim’s ribs with a couple of fingers. 

A huge grin breaks out on Jim’s face. “Aw, c’mon, Bones,” he says. He lets his shoulders do the _thing,_ the one where they go slack and get all square at the same time so he looks nonchalant and broad-shouldered. Jim is not by any means broad-shouldered, but he is oftentimes nonchalant. “I don’t have a scratch on me.” 

Bones hates it because he’s right. Jim gets out of a lot of things lesser men would have died from. The man’s a damn cat, but with a damn sight more than nine lives. “There’ll be a lot more than scratches when I’m done with you,” Bones says darkly. 

“Ryeeerrrr,” Jim growls, in an attempt at mimicking a cat. Bones wants to punch him again, but decides against it. 

“Don’t let it happen again 

Jim rolls his eyes. “Knowing this ship, it’s going to happen again next week,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow.” 

And _that’s_ when Bones punches him again. 

*** 

The turbo lift doors whirr open, and stepping out of it is a very haggard-looking Leonard. 

“Bones!” Jim springs out of his chair. The doctor is in his scrubs, and they’re covered in blood. Some of it is no doubt his own – and there’s a lump under his shirt, a covering of gauze to dress the gash across his chest. The rest, however, will be his patient’s. His patient’s, Sulu’s, who he saved, who Bones practically brought back from the _dead,_ because he’s _amazing_ and he’s Jim’s _best friend –_

Jim throws a rough arm around the back of Bones’ neck, bends him a little, and rubs his knuckles in Bones’ hair. “Bones, you’re the best doctor a captain could hope for, you’re a miracle worker, you’re a _saint –_ ” 

“Ow, ow, _ouch,_ ” Bones says, struggling to get away but trying not to use his torso, “there’s an open wound under this gauze on my chest, you idiot.” 

“Right, sorry,” Jim says, and lets up a little. He ruffles Bones’ hair with the hand of the arm slung around Bones’ shoulders, and Bones raises an eyebrow. 

“He’s in stable condition, Jim,” the doctor says. He’s put on his sterile voice, his ‘I am a doctor first and a man later’ voice, the one he pulls out when he’s trying to maintain some sort of high ground on Jim. “He’s going to be alright, but he nearly wasn’t. A minute longer and we’d be burying him, not giving him a sedative for the pain.” 

“Is he in a lot of pain?” asks Chekov. Jim knows Chekov and Sulu are close – they have to be, working together like they do. They spend a lot of time staring at empty space together, and that can be a bonding experience in and of itself. 

“He was before I gave him the sedative,” Leonard shrugs, forcing Jim’s arm to fall away. “He’s going to sleep for quite a while, but he’s going to recover, kid.” 

Chekov’s shoulders soften a little bit, and he gives McCoy a small smile. “ _Da,_ ” he says, “thank you, sir.” 

Jim slaps Bones hard enough on the back to make him wince. 

*** 

“If we get out of this, I am going to give you a black eye,” Bones pants, hands on his knees. It’s hot on this blasted planet; heat from the twin stars above and heat radiating from the hot, red rocks below their feet. His own uniform is so soaked with sweat it looked navy blue instead or standard sciences blue. 

“I dare you,” Jim wheezes. “That’s conditional on us living, obviously.” 

Spock jogs back towards them. Of course, there’s not a bead of sweat on him – he’s a Vulcan, after all, and he’s used to these conditions. “Captain,” he says. “I may have managed to repair the communicator’s charging cell, but we will have to delay while it builds enough charge to contact the Enterprise.” 

Bones blinks in disbelief. “There is a giant flying lizard attacking us on a planet that’s three times as hot as Earth, Spock, and you want us to just _wait,_ ” He breathes. Jim coughs beside him. 

“Yes,” Spock replies. “Our best option would be to seek some kind of shelter.” 

“No shit, Sherlock.” 

“Are you referring to Sherlock Holmes, the fictional detective created by – ” 

“Spock, I’m going to say this the nicest way I can right now,” Jim says. “Shut. Up.” 

They find their shelter, an outcropping of rock that provides a small amount of shade and blocks the possibility of being spotted from the air. They can hear the creature’s cries in the distance, wheeling and surveying its territory, casting sweeping shadows on the bright, hot ground in front of them. 

Jim swallows against friction in his dry throat, and Bones mops his soaking forehead with an equally damp arm. The two men have stripped themselves of their shirts and torn their pants at the knees in an attempt to keep themselves cool. “Spock,” Jim rasps. “How much longer.” 

“It is quite timely of you to ask, Captain,” he responds. “The communicator will be ready in 15 seconds.” 

Bones and Jim groan, desperate for a glass of water or a cold shower or a trip to an ice planet. When the time has elapsed, Jim snatches the comm from Spock. “Kirk to Enterprise. Beam us up, _now._ ” 

At that exact moment, the reptilian creature hovering above them lets out an ear-splitting screech. The three freeze in place, and suddenly the scenery around them is dissolving, and they’re transporting back to the ship. 

“Safe,” Jim says after they have materialized. He looks exhausted, soaked in sweat, but exhilarated and wild-eyed, the way he always gets after a good mission or a good fight. 

Bones turns to him, draws an arm back, and lands his knuckles just below Jim’s eye. 

Jim reels from it, and Scotty startles. “Fair,” Jim says, after shaking his head to clear it. He claps Bones on the shoulder, and they head to the medbay to rehydrate themselves, leaving Scotty puzzled in the transporter room. 

*** 

“I’m a doctor, not a kickboxer,” Bones says. He holds his forearms in front of his face and chest. He was never much for physical fighting, considering that he preferred to wage linguistic and psychological warfare instead, but a certain amount of combat training was required at the Academy. 

Jim bounces on the balls of his feet, light and quick, throwing test punches at the air in front of him. “Come on, Bones, it’s not so bad,” he pleads. “It can’t hurt to have a little self-defense training.” It’s odd, seeing Bones in workout clothes. He never sees him in anything but uniform or scrubs. His shorts and t-shirt are almost incongruous, as if McCoy had sprung into life wearing blue scrubs already. You wouldn’t expect him to be as hairy as he is, but at the same time, you would. 

“Is this self-defense training or am I your punching bag?” Bones asks. His forearms where starting to turn red where Jim had landed a few trial punches, and the one on his ribs was probably going to hurt for a couple days. 

Jim shrugs. “Ready?” 

“No.” 

“Too late.” He throws a punch, which Bones manages to dodge, and a left hook that clips Bones’ shoulder. He kicks and slams his thigh into Bones’ hip. Going for another punch, this time to the chest, Jim decides not to hit too hard. He’s only learning, after all – 

Bones sweeps a leg under Jim while Jim has his mind elsewhere. It knocks Jim’s foot from under him, and Jim goes down hard on his tailbone on the mats. 

“You _cheated,_ ” he says, scrambling up. 

“Well, I protected myself, didn’t I? Can I go back to my medbay now?” 

“ _No,_ ” Jim says, and launches himself at Bones in a flying tackle. The two of them land in a heap, one of Jim’s knees pressing Bones’ thigh to the floor and hands pinning Bones’ shoulders to the floor. Quickly, Jim switches positions slightly so that he pins Bones to the ground by his forearms, and Jim’s other knee rests at about Bones’ navel. 

Bones coughs. “Now I definitely need to go to medbay,” he says. 

Jim laughs. “You smell lovely today, Bones. Actually, you smell good most days. What cologne do you use?” 

“Thanks. You smell like sweat. And if I told you what cologne I use you might use it to try to steal ladies away from me.” 

“Ladies.” 

“Yes, ladies. Get off me.” 

*** 

It’s the middle of his sleep shift, and Bones wakes up with a twinge in his neck and vague feeling of frustration. An attempt at movement and the sensation of an erection confirms that the frustration is sexual in nature. 

With sudden clarity, he knows the cause. “Jim,” Bones says, eyes narrowing. He throws his covers off, pulls on a clean pair of scrubs, and marches off to find him. 

It’s no good wandering around the ship looking for one man, though Bones doesn’t realize it for a full five minutes. Stopping at the nearest communicator panel, he calls for Jim. “McCoy to Kirk, come in Kirk.” 

“Kirk here,” comes the reply, “What is it, Bones?” 

“Where are you?” 

“I’m passing by recreation room 4, why?” 

“Stay there.” 

Bones does not wait to hear Jim’s reply, but jogs off to the turbo lift to get to the recreation deck. 

Jim is not in recreation room 4 when Bones gets there, though a few crewmen are there playing cards. 

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. JIM!” 

“Bones?” comes the faint reply. He rushes towards it, finding Jim in an empty gym room. 

“ _Jim,_ ” Bones hisses, angry and relieved all at the same time. He strides directly in front of Jim, and without stopping, swings a fist at Jim’s jaw. 

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Jim asks, squinting an eye on the side of his face where Bones’ fist connected, and working his jaw. He presses a palm to the spot, which is quickly growing red – could be a bruise tomorrow, but not if Bones gives him some cream for it. Which he has a mind not to do. 

Unasked for and unwanted, tears are boiling in his eyes. “Because I love you, god damn it,” Bones hisses. “I fucking love you, and not like a best friend, not like a fucking brother, like I am actually, really in love with you.” 

There is a confused expression on Jim’s face. It could be from the punch, still, but it’s probably not. _Forget it,_ Bones wants to say, _just fucking forget I said anything._ Before he gets the chance, Jim blurts, “Oh my _god,_ I am so glad you said it first. I’m such a fucking coward. God, I want to kiss you.” 

“What?” 

“I want to kiss you, a lot. Like, a really crazy amount. God, I love you too, I just fucking – Christ, will you kiss me already? It’s like I’m having a heart attack.” 

The result is less a kiss than a collision. They kiss and their noses bang together and their teeth scrape, and Jim mumbles, “ouch,” into Bones’ mouth. Bones backs Jim to the wall, slamming him hard against it with hands on Jim’s shoulders. “Ow!” Jim says, muffled by Bones’ mouth. Jim digs nails into Bones’ scalp, and Bones slides hands down to grip Jim’s ass. 

Accidentally, but also kind of on purpose, Bones bites down hard on Jim’s lower lip. Jim allows it for a second, then pulls away 

“Can we stop hurting each other for like, five fucking seconds, please?” Jim says, panting and laughing and licking blood from his lower lip. “Why are you so intent on harming me? Aren’t you supposed to be a fucking doctor?” 

“That’s what it says on my diploma,” Bones replies. God, he wants Jim to stop licking at that blood. Bones wants to do it for him. “Doctor Leonard McCoy, MD.” 

“Well, fucking act like it,” he says, and kisses Bones again, gentler this time, with no crashing of body parts. Bones can taste the copper-salt of Jim’s blood, and he runs his tongue on Jim’s lower lip. Both of them are stinging and sore all over, but it somehow feels very, very right.


End file.
